“He’s the cousin of the home secretary. As a matter of fact, he’s abroad. It isn’t Locke I want to see, but a guest who is staying at his house. I must get to him, Kerrigan, without a moment’s delay!”
“A guest?”
“Say, rather, someone who is hiding there.”
“Hiding?”
“I can’t mention his name—yet. But he returned secretly from Africa. He is the driving power behind one of Europe’s dictators. By consent of the British Foreign Office, he came, also secretly, to London. Can you imagine why?”
“No.”
“To see me!”
Sir Malcom’s Guest
Fey, that expressionless, leather-faced valet-chauffeur of Nayland Smith’s, was standing at the door beside the Rolls, rug over arm, as though nothing unusual had occurred; and as we proceeded towards Sir Malcolm’s house, Smith, smoking furiously, fell into a silence which I did not care to interrupt.
I count myself psychic, for this is a Celtic heritage, yet on this short journey nothing told me that, although as correspondent for the Orbit I had had a not uneventful life, I was about to become mixed up in a drama the outcome of which meant nothing less than the destruction of what we are pleased to call Civilization. And in averting Armageddon, by the oddest paradox I was to find myself opposed to the one man who, alone, could save Europe from destruction.
Sir Malcolm Locke’s house presented an unexpectedly festive appearance as we approached. Nearly every window in the large building was illuminated, a number of cars were drawn up and a considerable group of people had congregated outside the front door.
“Hello!” muttered Nayland Smith. He knocked out his pipe in the ash tray and dropped the briar into a pocket of his Burberry. “This is very odd.”
Before Fey had pulled in Smith was out and dashing up the steps. I followed and reached him just as the door was opened by a butler. The man’s face wore a horrified expression: a constable was hurrying up behind us.
“Sir Malcolm is not at home, sir.”
“I am not here to see Sir Malcolm, but his guest. My name is Nayland Smith. My business is official.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler, with a swift change of manner. “I didn’t recognize you.”
The door opened straight into a lofty hallway, from the further end of which a crescent staircase led to upper floors. As the butler closed the door I immediately became conscious of a curiously vibrant atmosphere. I had experienced it before, in places taken by assault or bombed. It is caused, I think, by the vibrations of frightened minds. Several servants were peering down from a dark landing above but the hallway itself was brightly lighted. At this moment, a door on the right opened and a clean- shaven, heavily built man with jet-black, close-cropped hair came out. He glanced in our direction.
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Nayland Smith. “What’s this? What are you doing here?”
“Thank God you’ve arrived, sir!” The inspector stopped dead in his stride. “I was beginning to fear something was wrong.”
“This is Mr. Bart Kerrigan—Chief Inspector Leighton of the Special Branch.”
Nayland Smith’s loud, rather harsh tones evidently having penetrated to the room beyond, again the door opened, and I saw with astonishment Sir James Clare, the home secretary, come out.
“Here at last, Smith,” was his greeting. “I heard your voice.” Sir James spoke in a clear but nearly toneless manner which betrayed his legal training. “I don’t know your friend”—staring at me through the thick pebbles of his spectacles. “This unhappy business, of course, is tremendously confidential.”
Nayland Smith made a rapid introduction.
“Mr. Kerrigan is acting for no newspaper or agency. You may take his discretion for granted. You say this unhappy business, Sir James? May I ask “
Sir James Clare raised his hand to check the speaker. He turned to Inspector Leighton.
“See if there is any news about the telephone call, Inspector,” he directed, and as the inspector hurried away: “Suppose, gentlemen, you come in here for a moment.”
We followed him back into the apartment from which he had come. It was a large library, a lofty room, every available foot of the wall occupied by bookcases. Beside a mahogany table upon which, also, were many books and a number of documents, he sat down in an armchair, indicating that we should sit in two others. Smith was far too restless for inaction, but grunting irritably he threw himself down into one of the padded chairs.
“Chief Inspector Leighton of the Special Branch,” said Sir James, “is naturally acquainted with the identity of Sir Malcolm’s guest. But no one else in the house has been informed, with the exception of Mr. Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary. In the circumstances I think perhaps we had better talk in here. Am I to take it that you are unaware of what occurred tonight?”
“On your instructions,” said Smith, speaking with a sort of smothered irritability, “I flew from Berlin this evening. I was on my way here, and I can only suppose that the purpose of my return was known. A deliberate attempt was made tonight to wreck my car as I crossed Bond Street, by the driver of a lorry. Only Fey’s skill and the fact that at so late an hour there were no pedestrians averted disaster. He drove right on to the pavement and along it for some little distance.”
“Did you apprehend the driver of this lorry?”
“I did not stop to do so, although I recognized the fact that it was a planned attack. Then, when we reached Marble Arch, I realized that two men were following in a Daimler. I managed to throw them off the track, with Mr. Kerrigan’s assistance—and here I am. What has happened?”
“General Quinto is dead!”
The Green Death
This news, coupled with the identity of the hidden guest, shocked me inexpressibly. General Quinto! Chief of Staff to Signer Monaghani; one of the most formidable figures in political Europe! The man who would command Monaghani’s forces in the event of war; the first soldier in his country, almost certain successor to the dictator! But if I was shocked, the effect upon Nayland Smith was electrical.
He sprang up with clenched fists and glared at Sir James Clare.
“Good God, Sir James! You are not telling me that he has been—”
The home secretary shook his head. His legal calm remained unruffled.
“That question. Smith, I am not yet in a position to answer. But you know now why I am here; why Inspector Leighton is here.” He stood up. “I shall be glad, gentlemen, if you will follow me to the study which had been placed at the disposal of the general, and in which he died.”
A door at the further end of the library was thrown open and I entered a small study, intimately furnished. There was a writing desk near a curtained window, which showed evidence of someone’s recent activities. But my attention was immediately focused upon a settee in an arched recess upon which lay the body of a man. One glance was sufficient—for I had seen him many times in Africa.
It was General Quinto. But his normally sallow aquiline features displayed an agonized surprise and had acquired a sort of ghastly greenish hue. I cannot better describe what I mean than by likening the effect to that produced by green limelight.
A man whose features I could not distinguish was kneeling beside the body, which he appeared to be closely examining. A second man looked down at him, and as we entered the first stood up and turned.
It was Lord Moreton, the king’s physician.
Introductions revealed that the other was Dr Sims, the divisional police surgeon.
“This is a very strange business,” said the famous consultant, removing his spectacles and placing them in a pocket of his dress waistcoat. “Do you know”—he looked from face to face, with a sort of naive astonishment—“I have no idea what killed this man!”